Thirty Silver
by anondracomalfoy
Summary: The Dark Mark is slowly taking its toll on Draco Malfoy, and she certainly isn't helping matters. When a masked Death Eater and Gryffindor's Golden Girl get shoved together, limits will be tested and boundaries broken. **CURRENTLY UPDATING/CHANGING TITLE**
1. Prologue

_**The Noble Crown**_

"_Crowns do queer things to the heads beneath them. "_

_- George R.R. Martin_

**Prologue**

* * *

><p><em>May 1998<em>

His hands were coated in blood. Whether or not the dark rustic fluid rose from the gashes in his own flesh or was a sickening mixture of his enemy's, he did not know. Death hung in the air; rotting and eroding the already crumbling castle walls. It suffocated him-the stench of fallen comrades made his nose wrinkle in disgust and his stomach lurch with disappointment. He rose to his feet, wiping what he could of the sticky red excess on his black trousers. He gripped the slimy handle of his wand harder, sighing slightly in relief that he had managed to survive this long. But the worst aspect of relief is that despair tends to sneak up on its victim and choke it, smothering it to the point of abysmal doom that only naturally leads to a most inglorious death.

And so it was that the young and terrified boy's peace was short-lived; if only for a fraction of a second. His mind began to throw itself into motion once more, and he carried his heavy legs over to lean against a jagged chunk of a boulder that had barely survived the Curse directed towards the nameless Wizard who now lay crumpled against the rock's rough surface-the man's flesh was ripped open and hanging by a few threads to reveal his rotting insides. Oddly enough, Draco was reminded of a doll-ripped at the seams as its stuffing spilled out onto the dirty cobblestone path. There were many who had fallen this way-many whom the disconcerted boy had grown to feel less and less pity for as the minutes dragged into hours. The hours felt like years-aging him significantly as each minute on the clock stretched out into forever.

Strands of his white blonde hair were plastered to his grimy and damp face, coated with the charcoal rubble that was a result of several nearby spells gone awry. He searched the battlefield frantically, his panic-stricken grey eyes straining to locate a familiar face among the chaos.

Giants stomped violently amongst the garbage of what remained, cracking the Earth he stood on and sending particles of dirt scattering through the air. Death Eaters donned their Marks triumphantly on their left forearms, the inky stains branding them as the Society of the Wicked. Those considered brave and valiant pursued their enemies first; they were the first to go. Cavernous Acromantulas crawled about the rubble with surprising speed for creatures so large, destroying anything and everything in their path. The side of good and evil had blended-like someone had smudged black paint across a white canvas, purity intertwining with a darker force. Each tried to douse the other.

And the blood. Oh _Merlin_, the blood. The grounds were drenched in blood; it covered everything with its promise of rotting corpses and defeat. Red handprints streaked the once grey pavement of the ground they stood on as now-deceased captors had lunged in a desperate effort to escape, clawing into the Earth. But it was futile-they were all going to die. And those who lived would be better off dead.

"Draco!" an authoritative voice near him hissed, and the young Malfoy Heir pried his eyes from the devastating scene before him and cleared his mind of such morbid thoughts to settle on a similar set of steely grey eyes that bored into his. The man illustrated the toll of pride and many grievous mistakes; each one carved into his diminishing features. He was a mirror image of everything Draco was expected to be, and this fact was more unsettling now than it had ever been.

The boy's cracked and dirt-covered lips parted slightly, and he had planned to respond to this summoning when another shout of his name across the dense battlefield floated to his ringing ears like a harmonized whisper, temporarily diverting his attention from the cold and unforgiving eyes which refused to remove from his own.

"Draco!" came the shrill and desperate pleading of a young woman. His head snapped around, his eyes fixating on a petite brunette warding off Fenrir Greyback-who was hungrily licking his blood-tinted lips-with the aiming of her wand. He noted that her bushy hair was matted against her head and thick with the crusty remains of her dried wounds and shivered involuntarily. He felt a twinge of nostalgia and grief prickle his fingertips, and recalled a time when the young Witch had spoken his name with much less of a foreboding sense of doom that everyone around him now felt.

His mind struggled against the two drastically differentiating echoes of his name, and fearing he had stalled too long, sprung his wobbly legs into action.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

><p><strong>aN**: So, I'm changing things around a bit. I started this story in late 2011 (yeah, it's...2013 now), but after getting distracted with life, other stories, role playing, yadda yadda you name it, I sort of brushed this story off to the side. I'm a bit disappointed, truth be told-it's not like me to abandon any of my fanfics. With that being said, I've decided to take it up again! I'm going to be going through the few chapters I have up and tweaking a few things-fixing grammar, changing the title, and such. I'm so sorry to those who were interested in the story-hopefully I'll be able to capture your interest again!


	2. The Lion and the Serpent

_**The Noble Crown**_

**Chapter One: **The Lion and the Serpent

* * *

><p><em>October 1996<em>

Hermione Granger firmly believed anything could be logically reasoned through. It was her conviction that, should she place herself in any situation, the gears in her ever-persistent brain would set themselves into motion and devise a reasonable solution to whatever challenge lay in her path. Books and cleverness-her mind had explored the cavernous regions of each; desperate to grasp onto every bit of knowledge attainable and let it sink into her skin, simmering in her blood. She and Ron had fought aside Harry for years-she'd seen and experienced more in the world than most Witches or Wizards twice her age could honestly say.

She'd helped Harry and Ron pass through their years at Hogwarts with her disciplinary scolding and helpful notes. She'd built up S.P.E.W. in the hopes of helping House Elves who were still confined to the cruel binding of slavery. She'd proposed the idea of the DA and was an active participant in the group. She'd survived a good lashing from the Whomping Willow and helped Harry turn back time in order to save an innocent man from certain death. She had accomplished so much in her short time of living, but nothing-not books, not cleverness, not an infinite amount of knowledge or reason-could have prepared her for _this_.

"Professor, I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly," Hermione said incredulously, her mouth hanging slightly ajar as she stared at the newly-employed Potions Master, Horace Slughorn, with an undeniable look of horror masking her fair features.

Slughorn bellowed a hearty laugh and gave Hermione a light tap on the shoulder, as if her awe amused him. "Why, you heard me, Granger! Harry's the best one in the class, of course, but I don't want to distract him from his studies, and-" He leaned closer, cupping one hand around his lips as if to whisper. "-word has it that you're especially skilled in the area of juggling classes." Slughorn leaned away, beaming at her with all the determination of a man who had his mind set with what he was expecting from her, and Hermione Granger was hardly one to let someone down. Even if it meant something that was sure to be as painful and obnoxious as his supposed "brilliant" plan.

"But, Professor, I'm sorry but...I'm still not sure I understand. Why do you want Mal-_Draco Malfoy_ and myself to work together?" Hermione sputtered, her eyebrows lifting in astonishment as she once more attempted to wrap her overstuffed mind around this twisted logic her Potions Professor had somehow managed to concoct.

Slughorn waved her off with a slight gesture of his hand as though the answer were staring her in the face. "Because, as I've said, aside from Harry, you two are the most skilled in the class! And I think it'd motivate the others-Mr. Weasley, in particular-to receive higher marks if they witnessed the two strongest links working together. I want the pair of you to create a set of potions as indicated on the rubric I handed you earlier, Miss Granger. You'll present them to the class once you're finished with all of them, and then I can rave on and on about how splendid you two are! You must let Draco and yourself be collected for my Slug Club, of course-I won't take no for an answer, Miss Granger..."

There was hardly anything rational in Slughorn's toxic plan for Hermione and Draco to spend hours poring over a cauldron together. Aside from Harry's incessant complaints about him being a Death Eater-one of Voldemort's newest "weapons"-Malfoy himself was an arrogant, conceited, foolish, naive little _prat_ who couldn't be set in his place if his life depended on it. Just thinking about all of the horrendous things he had said and done to herself and her peers over the years caused her to ball her tiny hands into fists, digging her nails into her supple flesh and tearing the first layer of skin off, leaving tiny crescent-shaped grooves in her wake.

"...you'll agree, of course?" Slughorn finished, giving her a curious gaze as Hermione snapped herself out of her worrying thoughts. She nodded meekly, her curls bobbing up and down with her slight movements.

"Yes, Professor. Of course." She responded lamely, releasing the pressure she held on her hands and exhaling deeply. She could do this; she could. It was just Malfoy-and after everything Hermione had seen and done, she hardly thought some uppity Pureblood Slytherin was going to be too much to handle.

Determined, the young woman inhaled sharply before beginning to fiddle with her hands. Her curiosity was overwhelming, and before she gathered the sense to keep her mouth shut, she was blurting out the question that had been mounting inside of her since the start of their little...discussion. "Does he-Draco, that is-does he...know yet?" The way she delivered those words held a hint of anxiety, and she scolded herself for appearing so weak, negotiating that she would sound more confident and mature about the situation the next time it should arise in conversation.

Slughorn bobbed his head anxiously, an ignorant smile slipping onto his features. "Indeed I have! Must say, he wasn't so pleased about it as you, but I suspect he'll warm up, of course!"

Hermione could only manage to give him a half-hearted smile, her thoughts elsewhere. She excused herself from her Professor's company, clutching her books tightly to her chest and shuffling through the packed corridors of the school, tucking a strand of curly hair behind her ear and chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. So...Malfoy knew. Hermione hardly knew how to feel about that. Relieved, because that meant she wouldn't have to make him break the wretched news to him and face the onslaught of his initial fury? Angered, because now there was no way of backing out of it? The young Witch sighed in exasperation, plopping down on a bench and setting her books down next to her with a light thud. She raised a hand to her aching forehead and pinched the bridge of her nose, her lips pursing in frustration.

Merlin only knew how Malfoy was taking the news.

* * *

><p>Draco stormed through a long vacated washroom in Hogwarts-the only place where he could escape without notice. He paced the damp ground, hissing and cursing under his breath as he tried to control the pent-up rage that coursed through his veins. His wand hung loosely at his side, and he used his free hand to grip at his white-blonde hair, the knuckles on his already pallid skin turning white with the force he was using to clamp down on bits of his pale mane. He shoved his wand angrily in his pocket and let his tense arms fall to his sides, his chest heaving with aggravation.<p>

"I mean, what kind of fucking idea does that old lunatic have, anyways? He's not fit to teach a damn Potions class if he thinks that I'll voluntarily work with that _Mudblood_." Draco spat to no one in particular, his jaw clenched. Just then, he heard the screeching wails of Myrtle as she rose from the stall she most often occupied, her figure silvery and hollow like the whisper of something that once was.

Shit-he'd forgotten about her for a moment. He sighed in aggravation and rolled his eyes heavily, distaste lacing his mouth. "Shut up, would you?" He scoffed, suppressing the urge to punch something; _anything_. At the sound of his angry retort, Myrtle's cries ceased almost instantly and she sniffled, raising a hand to wipe away tears that weren't truly there. They were, essentially, non-existent. Just like she was.

"Oh, why are you so _mean_ to me?" Myrtle wailed, her translucent body heaving with silent shudders as her cries began again; their intermission brief and long overdue. Draco rolled his eyes and scoffed, pacing back and forth around the sinks of the long deserted girls' bathroom located on the second floor of the castle. His black loafers were sloshing against the thin layer of water that coated the aged tile floor-the aftermath of one of Myrtle's signature flooding tantrums.

He ignored her, as was his custom of late. It was better not to piss off the castle's most obnoxious adolescent ghost-one might end up leaving the restroom soaked in toilet water.

"To even _suggest _I work with that creature!" The young boy spat vehemently through clenched teeth, his hands trembling at his sides. White hot blasts of fury blotted his vision as he stormed about the damp bathroom, grumbling insults under his breath as Myrtle pouted in the corner, regarding him with a curious stare.

"Will you _stop _staring at me?" He shouted finally, his aggravation surging inside of him; the echoes of his exploded rage reverberating off the bare bathroom walls, hanging in the air and buzzing in his ears like the voices of the dead. His breathing grew shallow as his mind replayed the events of the most unfortunate afternoon.

Just the fact that the incompetent oaf was allowed a returning teaching position in the first place was astonishing in itself, but Slughorn's latest overly-optimistic and imbecilic idea had placed him high in rank with the biggest idiots he'd ever met-running in place directly behind Weasley and Finnigan, of course. He'd have placed Crabbe and Goyle as ties for first place, but often times Draco ended up musing over the fact that his boyhood sidekicks were actually just intelligent vegetables rather than the most extravagantly ignorant Wizards that had ever graced his presence.

With a smug grin settling upon his features, Draco stopped stalking the barren bathroom to imagine what were to happen should the four most idiotic Wizards he'd ever met be locked in the same room together-Crabbe and Goyle would probably end up eating each other, meanwhile Weasley would cry in the corner over the lack of food, and it would only be a matter of time before Finnigan got some crazy idea to_ actually _attempt to use magic and blew them all up. He imagined someone finding the remains of two chubby Slytherins mid-bite, a ginger rodent, and a leprechaun with extraordinary skills in pyrotechnics.

Draco was in the middle of imagining the spectacle when Myrtle's whimpers disrupted him from his thoughts; his eyes grew dark once more as he remembered the subject of his private conversation with his Potions Professor. He stepped quickly into motion once more, considering the obstacle that lay in front of him. There was no way around it-if he wanted to keep his position in Potions secure, he'd _have _to work with Granger, as much as the thought displeased him. He needed the class, much as he needed the information that came with it. Potions was no longer a class which he took just because he naturally excelled in it; no longer a class that he could take just for the hell of taking it. Potions class had become a necessity to survival, and Draco had to learn to somehow cope with it. Writing a letter of complaint to his jail-bird father would be useless, and Draco's jaw clenched with the conviction of a man realizing that he would be forced to interact daily with one of the members of the Golden Trio who had helped to land his father in Azkaban not even a year before.

Draco gave Moaning Myrtle one last disgusted look before turning hotly on his heels and storming out of the water-infested bathroom, his black robes billowing out behind him.

"This is sodding pathetic," He snapped under his breath, avoiding the lingering gazes of fellow students who had been curious about the young Malfoy's mysterious disappearances thus far into his sixth year at Hogwarts. He scowled at a group of curious second years and began to stalk about the corridors. Let them talk; it wasn't as if they knew. _Yet_.

_Just give it time, Draco. _He reminded himself, coaxing his conscious out of a state of anger and desperation. _They'll all learn eventually: one way or another_.

Draco had no idea where he was going; he just let his feet lead him through corridor after corridor, throwing icy glares at anyone who dared try to stare at him for longer than a moment or two. He had hated feeling like a spectacle the first few weeks of his return, but had soon grown used to the amount of attention and perplexed gazes he received from his peers. Now he simply shrugged them off with a hearty scowl or a pair of stone cold eyes. He stopped when he noticed a bushy mop of hair sorting through a large stack of books out in the courtyard, and with determination settling into his bones, Draco veered towards the girl, his mind in a frenzy with a thousand different thoughts.

"Well, well, well...if it isn't everyone's favorite Mudblood," Draco spat, approaching her and crossing his arms across his chest. "What an unpleasant surprise. I must say, I didn't expect to see you without the other two members of your stupid little cult. Fancy they remember how to breathe without you?"

Hermione turned up from her book as the slur met her ears, the muscles in her back going taut as she turned her brown eyes to glare at him. The disgust for his presence was practically rolling off of her in waves, and oddly enough Draco took a bit of satisfaction in this. She shoved a bushy curl behind her ear and regarded him with indifference, jutting her chin forward. "What do you want, Malfoy?" She replied coolly, and he could see the slightest twitch of her fingers. She was upset-_clearly_. Somehow, this soothed the ever-mounting rage in Draco's abdomen, and his lips stretched into the smallest smirk.

"I suppose it's a bit difficult for you, as well, what with your head always being shoved so far up the Weasel's arse. It must seem rather foreign and terrifying to be out all on your own. Tell me, Granger, do the two of you plan on raising your children in that rodent's nest you call hair, or would you rather buy them a nice little burrow with the one Galleon of inheritance that Weasley's sure to procure?"

He watched as Hermione's expression changed from strained indifference to anger, her lips parted and her chestnut brows knit in irritation. He could practically _feel_ the insult forming on her lips. She swallowed heavily, sighing in aggravation as she glared at him with that ferocious Gryffindor tenacity of hers.

"_Ronald_," She began, ice lacing her tone as she suppressed her anger. "will gain more in life than you _ever _will, Malfoy. And I suspect you've come to start a quarrel with me because _you've_ received the same infuriating news from Professor Slughorn that _I _have." She sat back and regarded him with contempt, and Draco realized that Granger more than likely _knew_ she was correct. How _infuriating_.

"Perhaps if we were engaging in an eating contest, you'd be correct," Draco spat, his upper lip twitching into a slight scowl. "But...I digress. I've come to tell you that the sooner we get this blasted project over with, the faster we can return to our natural lives."

He watched as Hermione's glare refused to soften and she seemed to weigh his words with a slight sort of suspicion.

"I concur," She stated brusquely, her pink lips thinning in suppressed anger. "So, we meet tomorrow to begin. One o'clock in Slughorn's room—he's given it to us during his free hour, and I'd rather not be seen in _public_ with you. If you're late, I'll start without you."

Draco merely rolled his eyes in response-how _typical_ of Granger to think she could take hold of the situation. Bossy, insufferable know-it-all that she was.

"_You'd _rather not be seen with _me_? What? You think I take pride in working with a Mudblood? Hardly." He managed, his voice laced with disgust. He regarded her with an air of superiority, as was expected of him. And she returned it with a glare of contempt followed by a small gasp, as was expected of her.

Hermione slammed the book that lay open in her lap shut, shoving it aside and standing, her hair whipping wildly around her in the crisp October breeze.

"Let's get one thing straight here, _Malfoy_," Hermione began shrilly, her voice quavering. She looked as though she was resisting the urge to backhand him. "If we are to work together for an extended period of time, you will refrain from calling me such names."

Draco sneered at her, his abdomen tickling with delight at the prospect of watching Witch get so riled up and react to his insults. "I'll say as I please, Granger, and I won't answer to you. One o'clock—I'll show up on my own time, but I'll be there. And if you aren't there by the time of my arrival, you'll learn to fucking regret it." Draco responded in a low voice, a growl resonating from the back of his throat.

Hermione parted her lips as if to speak, but instead glanced at the Slytherin before her up and down swiftly before turning hotly on her heel and gathering her books up in one sweeping gesture, moving out of the courtyard as her robes flew out behind her against the wind that occupied the area. "One o'clock," She shouted without turning around, certain that he had heard her.

And with that, she was gone. Bush hair and all. Draco scowled at the now-empty bench seat, envisioning the know-it-all Gryffindor still sitting there and challenging his stony glare with one of her own. His mouth spread into a wide smirk and he stretched his slender fingers at his sides, realization spreading through his being like wildfire.

If he was expected to work with the Mudblood, he was going to have a little fun while doing so.


	3. The Perfect Concoction

_**The Noble Crown**_

**Chapter Two: **The Perfect Concoction

* * *

><p><em>October 1996<em>

"So, what'd Slughorn want to talk to you about?" Harry asked, snapping Hermione from her troublesome thoughts. They were seated in the Gryffindor Common room—herself, Harry, Ron, and Ginny—by their normal positions in front of the fireplace. Ginny, having just engaged in another horrific fight with Dean Thomas, was gazing at the orange flames dancing before her, willing herself not to cry. Ron and Harry had, per usual, taken claim over the soft couches that occupied the lounging area of the House of the Lions, stretching out their limbs and pretending to do their homework. Hermione herself had been writing three feet of parchment for Herbology, but at Harry's words, the quick and skillful hand that gripped her quill froze mid-sentence. She paused, assessing on how to best approach the subject and opened her mouth as if to speak before Ron piped up.

"Reckon he wanted to praise her for his stupid Slug Club," Ron grumbled, and Hermione could practically _hear_ the pout that was surely etched onto his face, souring his pale and freckled features.

Her fingers gripped the quill tighter, and Hermione jerked her head around to glare at Ron with unforgiving brown eyes from her position next to Ginny at the foot of the couch.

"_Actually_, Ronald," She snapped, her irritation flaring. "Professor Slughorn wanted to speak with me about an extra credit assignment, and I've consented to do it."

It wasn't an exact lie, truly: Slughorn's task _was_ an extra credit assignment of sorts—Hermione had just left out the fact that it was to be completed with Draco Malfoy. She didn't see any reason in particular to make the boys privy to this piece of knowledge—it would do nothing but worry and infuriate them. And she wasn't exactly keen on listening to Harry ramble through another segment of his conspiracy theory that Draco Malfoy had become a Death Eater.

Again, it was Harry's voice that tore her from her thoughts of the distasteful task that was to await her, and her eyes shifted from Ron's to Harry's, softening at the confused pair of green eyes that lay behind a set of crooked glasses.

"But Hermione," Harry began, obvious confusion coating his tone. "You're brilliant—why would you need an extra credit assignment for Potions?"

Hermione stalled, thinking of an adequate response to his innocent inquiry. She didn't understand why she was being so secretive about this affair, but something in her gut warned her against admitting the truth to them.

"Slughorn just asked me to do it, Harry," She responded softly, wishing they would change the subject. "I'm not going to give up on an offer to earn higher Marks when it so willingly drops into my lap." Harry nodded as if this answer satisfied him before turning back to reading through his Potions textbook, which Hermione had observed he'd taken far more interest in as of late. It could just be because someone other than the foul and pessimistic, Slytherin-sympathizing Severus Snape was teaching the class, but Hermione highly doubted that. She was just about to question Harry about his fascination with it when she heard Ginny sniffle beside her. Turning her bushy-head towards the youngest Weasley, she touched the younger Witch's arm gently and motioned for the two of them to head for the girls' dormitory so that Hermione could, once again, listen as Ginny verbalized her frustrations with her newfound boyfriend.

It would keep her mind off of Malfoy, and that was all that mattered at this point.

* * *

><p>Sleep, Draco noted, was a sneaky and evasive bastard. Shortly after his Father's imprisonment in Azkaban not even a year prior, Draco had been forced to remove normal sleeping patterns from his daily routine as the responsibility and weight of his family overwhelmed him. And so it was that the young Pureblood lay in his bed in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, staring at the ceiling and watching as the candle that Blaise Zabini was using as guidance to write a letter flickered and cast shadows against the ceiling above him. He hadn't spoken to Zabini tonight, but Draco knew better than to assume that his Housemate knew he was asleep. Still, he didn't wish to disturb the momentary peace and silence that lingered between them. Instead, he heaved a sigh and allowed his eyes to flutter closed.<p>

"You haven't been around much lately," Blaise said suddenly, never looking up from the parchment he was scrawling on. Draco's eyes shot open and he turned his head to look at his friend, bemusement flooding onto his face.

"How observant of you," Draco snapped, a bit harsher than he'd intended to. Blaise responded with a low and all-knowing chuckle that made Draco want to roll his eyes and pull his hair out. Zabini had been treating him like a fool as of late—like a moron for believing in the impossible and putting too much faith in himself and all that rubbish. But they didn't know. None of them _really_ knew.

"I take it you've been…busy?" Blaise continued blandly.

"Clearly," Draco remarked, not wishing to press matters further. He wasn't to tell anyone of his secret; it was his promise to the Dark Lord. His promise to his parents. Revealing Draco's intentions for his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would not only be foolish, but extremely risky. Times like these required him to keep to himself: the less temptation to expose himself, even to people whom he once deemed as his closest friends, the better.

Blaise merely sighed to himself, and soon enough Draco heard the scrawling of a quill against fresh parchment once more. He knew that he was safe from further questioning…for now. But deep within the confines of his mind, lurking in the lonely crevices in which he had been forced to stow his emotions, Draco began to bitterly wonder how long it would be before he had successfully pushed away every single person in his life who even gave a damn.

He didn't know which prospect frightened him more: pushing everyone away, or being pushed away in return.

Only time would tell.

* * *

><p>It was ten past one, and Hermione had yet to see any trace of Draco Malfoy. She sat perched on the edge of her stool, staring into her empty cauldron and grumbling to herself about his tardiness. Her stomach was in knots, and despite the fact that she had chosen to forgo a hearty lunch, Hermione couldn't help but feel her stomach churn at the thought of what laid ahead for her today. Spending an hour or so multiple times each week working on a presentation with the school bully; with <em>Draco Malfoy<em>? She could hardly think of a punishment more inhumane. She'd rather face the Whomping Willow again.

Even Fluffy, the three-headed dog, seemed like a more pleasant option.

Just as she was about to begin working without him, she heard a sudden slam from behind her. Startled, Hermione jumped slightly in her seat before twisting her torso around to locate the source of the noise. Her chocolate eyes instantly narrowed into accusatory slits, her mouth forming a thin line as her lips pressed together at the sight of none other than the supposed _Slytherin Prince_ himself.

"Well, look who decided to show up," She managed, anger swelling inside of her. "And just where_ have_ you been, exactly?"

Draco stopped at the sight of her, his pale blonde eyebrows shooting up at her sour and accusing tone, and Hermione could faintly tell that his mouth was itching to twist itself into a smug smirk or string a list of snarky insults at her. The insufferable git!

"You're permitted to speak to me about the damn assignment, Granger," He responded gruffly, sauntering across the room and pulling a stool over to the table she had already situated herself at, sitting down harshly on the other side of the table and glaring at her through half-lidded eyes. "But don't inquire after my personal life. I can't condescend far enough to even dignify any of your inane questions with a response."

Hermione bit back an insult on her tongue, recognizing that the only way to maintain the tiniest bit of civility in their situation was for her to be the bigger person and end the feuding. Godric knew it would be hard, given the difficulty of the person she was facing, but Hermione's stubborn pride and ambitions to receive the highest Marks in class conquered the fact that in order to achieve these dreams, she had to coexist with a crude and arrogant arse like Draco Malfoy.

"So, what're we doing?" He snapped out, a bored expression encompassing his features. He drummed his fingers on the table top, obviously displeased that she wasn't already waiting for him with the blasted thing complete. Impatient prat.

"The first potion we've been told to make is Draught of Living Death, _Malfoy_," Hermione spat, grinding her molars together. With nostrils flaring, she yanked her Potions textbook from its resting place on the table and opened it violently, flipping through the pages with her brown brows slightly furrowed in concentration as she searched for the correct potion. Relieved that he hadn't snapped a biting remark at her comment and fearful that he still would, Hermione began rambling off the ingredients.

"We need wormwood, asphodel, valerian roots, Sloth brain, and the juice of a—"

"—sopophorous bean," Draco finished blandly, his eyes on the empty cauldron.

She stared at him curiously, astonished at his accuracy. Hermione had never been used to someone besides herself knowing the proper ingredients to a potion without further detailed instruction, having hung around Harry and Ron for so long (both of which could care less about the inner workings of Potions Class). She fumbled over her speech for a bit, perplexed that _Malfoy_ of all people appeared to recognize this which her own friends lacked.

"Well—well yes," She stuttered, her eyes dropping from his back to the book. She bit her bottom lip, chewing on the skin as she skimmed its contents. She let out a slightly aggravated sigh and reread one of the instructions a second time. When at last she felt she had digested everything, she raised her eyes and was startled to discover that Malfoy had already begun chopping the valerian root, his hands skilled and precise as he chopped the root up into perfect little squares.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, claiming that he had no right to begin a potion without further instruction, and that it was completely idiotic and not at all the time for him to get the idea to improvise, when Draco parted his lips and began to speak.

"As it is, Granger," He spoke venomously, her name sounding like poison on his tongue. "I've made this potion before. You need to crush the juice from the bean out with a dull edge, otherwise the full concentrate of juices won't be extracted."

She stared at him, baffled. Where would Malfoy have had time to make this potion before? And for _what_? Her brown eyes dropped down to the textbook, and she found that nowhere in its contents did it dictate she crush the sopophorous bean with a dull blade.

"That's _not_ in the book," She responded, aggravated that he couldn't follow the bloody rules just _once._

At the sound of her protest, Draco dropped the knife he'd been using, letting it fall to the table with a clattering thud. His hands gripped the edge of the table and he raised two cool grey eyes to bore into her conflicted brown ones.

"Let's get _one _thing straight, Granger," He sneered, his upper lip practically begging to pull back and bare his teeth. "If we're going to work on this damn thing together, then you need to pull whatever stick it is that Weasley or who the hell ever else lodged up your arse and learn to improvise, or I'll kick it out myself."

She blinked in shock, her face settling into astonishment and her mouth hanging slightly ajar. Soon, however, she collected her bearings and her eyebrows furrowed in anger at the arrogant Wizard before her, her petite hands balling into fists and trembling with rage at her sides. Hermione clenched her jaw shut and glared at him with all of the contempt she could muster in her being-how _dare_ he!

"You have _some_ nerve, Malfoy," Hermione responded tartly, her voice cracking slightly with the anger that was slowly but surely building inside of her. "To speak to me in such a—such a crude and vulgar way! You know nothing about me, _Malfoy_—I advise you stop trying before you hurt that inflated ego of yours. And—and Ron has _nothing_ to do with this, so I'd suggest keeping his name out of your mouth."

"I think you're the one who has to worry about keeping him out of your mouth, Granger," Draco snickered, unfazed by her heated glare.

Oh, she was going to _murder_ him.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in disgust (and unfortunately..embarrassment), and she let out a hearty scoff of resentment.

"You're unbearable! Not only that, but also rude, vain, arrogant, _ignorant_-" She spat through clenched teeth, but the insult was cut off as he snorted at her.

"Whatever you say, Granger."

Rather than continue, Hermione settled for glaring at him for several more moments, unable to focus on anything but her impatience with the cocky, pale-skinned Slytherin she was being forced to work with. Huffing, she snatched up the sopophorous bean and her hand hovered over the dull edge, contemplating on whether or not she should follow Draco's advice of not.

_Well, he certainly __**seems**__ to know what he's doing, _she thought in bitter resentment, gnawing on her bottom lip. _But, if the textbook orders for something else to be done…_

Deeming herself insane, Hermione let out a breath she had no idea she was holding in and grasped the cool wooden handle of the dull blade, placing the bean inside a small glass cup on the counter and pressing the side of the flat metal blade into the bean, pressing down and gritting her teeth in concentration. She was surprised to discover how quickly and thickly the juice appeared to flow from the bean once crushed with the dull edge she was using, and mentally cursed Malfoy for being correct. Her pride, only slightly wounded, pulsated within her, daring her to complete the potion before he had a chance to add in another unnecessary two cents about her or her friends, and quickly resolved to squeezing the juice out of the bean as much as she could, sighing slightly when finished. Removing the dried-out bean from the cup and placing the blade next to her, she picked up the glass cup and poured the juice inside the cauldron, which was simmering to a boil.

Her eyes barely shifted over to Draco, and she studied him with a curious expression on her face as he nonchalantly dumped the cut-up bits of valerian root into the cauldron, brushing the excess plant from his hands off on his black trousers. She noticed how withered he looked compared to previous years—less cocky and more sullen. He was still the same arrogant, self-righteous Pureblood elitist Malfoy Heir, but something was definitely different about him. His grey eyes seemed stormy all of the time—haunted by something, almost. His skin seemed to pull and tug in certain places, as though he was struggling to escape the fleshy bonds he'd become prisoner to. Hermione cocked her head slightly to the side, taking in all of the subtle changes with exhilarating clarity now. His eyes, which had been concentrated on the cauldron, lifted and caught her staring at him.

The pair of them held their gazes for a moment—Hermione's calculating brown eyes rivaling Draco's cold and unforgiving grey ones. At last she broke her stare, her cheeks flooding a slight pink once she realized she'd been caught analyzing him. She cleared her throat and turned back to her textbook, heaving a shuddering sigh.

"You took my advice," He stated in a bored voice after a few moments of silence, his hand in a jar as he reached for the sloth brain. He pulled it out and prepared it before throwing it into the cauldron, reaching his eyes once more to stare at her, his face expressionless. Feeling his heated glare on her, she forced herself to raise her head and stare back at him, trying to mask all of the emotions that were surging inside of her at present.

"I did," She responded shortly, her voice taut with emotion. He merely snickered under his breath, that infuriating sneer momentarily dominating his features. And just like that, it was gone—wiped away and replaced with the same cold and impassive glare he'd given to so many people as of late. He turned his attention away from her and grabbed the metal ladle, sighing in aggravation as he studied the cauldron.

"You didn't put the damn wormwood in," He observed, slightly annoyed. She rolled her eyes at him and let a small hiss escape through her tightly clamped lips. She snatched the wormwood and began gingerly snapping it in places before tossing it in the cauldron. She held her hand out for the ladle expectantly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she waited for the utensil to be slapped into her palm.

"I'm doing it," He stated, as if the point was inarguable. Hermione's mouth dropped open slightly, and her eyebrows knit together again as a fresh wave of irritation flew through her.

"You don't get a say in _everything_, Malfoy," She spat, reaching out and grabbing the ladle from his grasp, pulling the cauldron closer to her and stirring the concoction carefully. Draco murmured something inaudible (more than likely insulting under his breath), but Hermione chose to ignore it—bringing it up would only result in additional moments of feuding that she just didn't have the energy for.

He gave her a scornful glare and tapped his fingers once impatiently against the counter once more, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a most aggravating manner. She gnashed her teeth together, stirring the potion with slow and precise movements—focusing on the flicks and swishes of her wrist rather than the annoying Pureblood who stood not two feet away from her.

Hermione studied the potion carefully, watching as it turned from a deep and vile color to a lilac purple, but grew distressed when it would grow no lighter.

"I don't understand," She murmured, panic rising in her chest. "It's supposed to be clear—that's what the book says!" Draco just continued to stare at her with contempt etched onto his worn features, and Hermione looked at him in a slight state of panic.

"You could _do_ something, Malfoy!" She shrieked, growing as infuriated with his sudden detachment from the potion as she was with the fact that it wasn't brewing correctly. Her snippy attitude obviously drew his attention, because he stood erect and gave her a haughty glare at once.

"I was doing the damn thing just _fine_ myself," He yelled, yanking the ladle from her hand and smacking his lips in disgust. "If you'd just get off your fucking high horse once in a while, I'd have done this thing right and we'd have been done for the day." He dipped the ladle in the cauldron and began stirring it in the same rhythmic movements Hermione had been not five minutes ago.

"_My _high horse?" She sputtered incredulously, a dry laugh bubbling up her throat. "_You're _the arrogant one here, Malfoy! Your selfishness and completely disdain for those who aren't a part of your elitist Pureblood society is _anything_ but humble." He dropped the ladle at once, turning towards her and jabbing a slender white finger in her face.

"Can't keep your damn mouth shut, can you, Granger?" He sneered, his fingers shaking with repressed rage. A throaty growl emanated from his throat, and his eyes grazed over her being with absolute loathing before he turned back to the potion, jerking his hands in movements that weren't as swift and smooth as before. She noticed he began to switch from stirring counter-clockwise to clockwise on the final turn. Hermione opened her mouth as if to protest, claiming it hadn't been included in the text, but was then reminded that his precision with the bean hadn't been included in the book either, and let the subject drop.

Seemingly satisfied with himself, Draco pulled away, a smug grin broadening on his alabaster face. She eyed him skeptically before moving forward, setting the burner to simmer and inspecting the cauldron. She had expected—almost hoped, even—for the color of the potion to be so discolored and incorrect that they'd have to start an entirely new patch and she could revel in his failure. When, however, she leaned forward to peer into the cauldron and noticed the clear liquid concoction of a perfectly brewed Draught of Living Death gazing back at her, something twisted in her stomach and she instantly felt nauseas.

"It's…done correctly," She choked out, her astonishment written plainly on her features.

"I know."

"But…how'd you do it?"

"You're not the only one who's intelligent, you know."

She paused, slightly offended and a bit embarrassed by his retort.

"I never said you—that is, I never insinuated you were anything but, Malfoy," She replied curtly, her lips curling back into a dissatisfied grimace. He watched her with blatant contempt, shoving away from the table and moving to collect flasks to store the potion in.

"Just keep that in mind," He responded coolly. She waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't she let out a hum of relief, satisfied that her session with him for the day was almost complete. They'd barely spent any time together and she was already exhausted from his presence. She moved to clean the leftover ingredients that lay strewn across the table and went to shut off the burner so that the potion wouldn't burn and all of their hard work would be ruined.

Her eyes kept averting to stare at him as she watched him set the cauldron to simmer in the corner as Slughorn had suggested, preparing the flasks for when their potion would be copmlete. Hermione couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of curiosity as her eyes soaked in just how severely he seemed to have changed. He was still immature, but in a whole other sense. Something in him had changed; had bloomed. or withered, depending on how you looked at it. He was more sadistic and sullen now than ever before—less reliant on his father's connections ever since Lucius' had been shipped off to the unforgiving stone walls of Azkaban not even a year before. Perhaps it was that now that his father had been revealed as a still-loyal follower of Lord Voldemort himself, Draco felt a sense of embarrassment for his family connections.

But probably not.

She couldn't place her finger on it, whatever it was—she mused over the fact that extra sessions with him might unravel the mystery that seemed to lie just underneath his exterior. He lifted his eyes to glare at her as he finished placing the stopper on the final flask, and in that moment Hermione swore he could sense her judgment. He raised one blonde brow curiously, his expression otherwise remaining vacant.

"Enjoying the show?" He asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. She rolled her eyes heavily at him and scoffed, moving to cross her arms across her chest.

"I think not," She replied sourly.

He threw a smirk her way—it was an arrogant and all-knowing smirk that seemed to challenge the words that came tumbling out of her mouth. It was the famous Malfoy smirk, and it absolutely never failed to grind her gears. She was vaguely aware that he had begun to pack up, fixing his robes and brushing the leftover valerian root off of his trousers. She watched as he made his way towards the Potions door, evidently fixated upon not acknowledging her existence. This wound her up even further, for some reason, and she found herself—out of spite—calling out, "I'll see you soon then, Malfoy."

He halted as his hand grasped the door and threw it open, craning his neck around to stare at her. He barely glanced at her down his slender nose, his eyes barely grazing over her being before turning to leave.

"Unfortunately," He called out behind him, slamming the door shut as he left.

Hermione staggered backwards, pressing her back against the wall and letting herself sink to the ground. She let out a breath she'd been holding in far longer than she knew and raised her hands to massage her aching temple.

Draco Malfoy was even more of an arrogant, pompous, short-tempered arse than he had been the past five years.

And Hermione was stuck with him.

* * *

><p><strong>aN**: Please note that there will be some alterations made to this story line to accommodate the fanfic's plot! Review and let me know what you think :).


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